


Point of Departure

by alittletoohappy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, Adventure, Airplane, Albino Dave, Anxiety, BBQ Chips, Betrayal, California, Fear of Flying, Fluff, Gay, Humanstuck, Karkat rage, M/M, Many of the side characters make only brief appearances, New York, Romance, The kids are in university, airplane au, davekat - Freeform, first fic, yep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5275034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alittletoohappy/pseuds/alittletoohappy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A friend's birthday in another city prompts a reluctant flight to New York on what may or may not be the worst fucking day ever.<br/>A misplaced comfort novel and a fear of flying salt the mind of an angry tired dude.<br/>Some fucking asshole in shades takes the last bag of BBQ chips. </p>
<p>For no reason in particular, it feels like it's going to be a long trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Terrible Mistake

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to my first sin

You have made a terrible mistake.

You carefully fold the last of your dark grey sweatshirts and place it into your suitcase, zipping the luggage shut. Suddenly, a high pitched tone cuts through the air, causing you to flinch as if you've just slammed your naked torso against freezing cold metal.  
"FUCKING SHIT," you hiss. The tone repeats, shrieking out an electronic dirge into the early morning atmosphere of your bedroom. After a brief moment of dazed confusion, the sound is traced to your phone. Snatching it off the bed, you inspect it for an explanation. 

Of course - It's your safety alarm. For some reason past you thought it was necessary to set a THIRD alarm just before you had to leave, just in case you were stupid enough to ignore the first two and jeopardize the entire trip. That fucking tool. You disable the alarm, glancing at the time. Five fucking thirty in the morning and you've never felt shittier.

What in the actual hell compelled you to agree to this trip? You shouldn't HAVE to subject yourself to five whole days of social mayhem in some far off city just because it's for your idiot friend's birthday. You hardly even know all the people he invited. Two of them have only just been added to your skype 'friends' list, and you've probably said a total of three words to them respectively. You curse the shitstain that gave Egbert the idea in the first place. Turntech fucktrumpet was his username you think. What a literal asshole. God, why couldn't Egbert have simply hosted some terrible house party instead of this over-complicated fuckapalooza. His cliché decision to piss away his 21st birthday in New York City is causing you an immense amount of stress. You have spent the past 3 days organizing your shit and packing in anxious preparation of this nerve-wracking venture. 

With an irritated whisper, you urge yourself to stay on task.  
The taxi should arrive shortly.

Grabbing the handle of your now completed suitcase, you haul it off the bed with great difficulty and set it on the floor in a grunt-riddled, less-than-elegant fashion. You then roll it to the front door, placing it next to two other bags. You decide to look over your baggage a final time. 

A large black suitcase now stands upright against the wall in your living room, a plastic tag inscribed with 'Property of Karkat Vantas' hanging from the handle. Next to it is a similarly tagged red dufflebag that holds all your various toiletries, and beside this is your trusty grey backpack. These three bags are saturated with every conceivable item you might need for the trip. You unzip the main pocket of your backpack to inspect the contents, quickly rummaging through the various items. Everything seems to be in order- wait...

Where the fuck is your book.

You were positive you put it in your backpack and suddenly it's nowhere to be found. Oh fuck no, that was going to be your only comfort on the plane! You'll have to be quick if you're going to find it before the taxi arrives. You glance at your phone while rushing to your bedroom to look for your missing romance novel. 5:45 - good, you might have a minute or two to search before it's time to go.  
Stomping into your bedroom, you rip sections of books off the shelf above your desk, but the rogue tome is nowhere to be found. You mumble an extensive string of profanity as you turn back towards the door of your bedroom, but freeze when your reflection in the mirror catches your eye. Holy fucking shit, why are you still in your pyjamas? Your gaze shoots to your bed, on which your last outfit is sitting in a heap. When will the bullshit cease??

Angrily, you tear off your pyjama bottoms and baggy shirt and yank on the grey jeans and similarly coloured “#1 Dad” t-shirt sitting on your bed. As you zip up the black hoodie that had remained, you glance at yourself in the mirror, hoping you'll at least look presentable for the horrible journey ahead. Unfortunately, your hopes are dashed upon the cold, hard floor. Your outfit, unsurprisingly, looks like it was thrown together haphazardly at the last minute. Your unkempt hair is sticking up in every which way, yet somehow wayward tufts of it are still managing to hang in front of your eyes. You swipe them aside in frustration, only to notice the dark circles under your eyes that would put the sloppy eyeliner of an 80’s rock star to shame. Your hair falls unceremoniously back in front of your eyes as you curse vision itself for never failing to make you feel like absolute shit. As a force of habit, you turn to the comfort of your cellular device. Wait... 6 already?? Is this some kind of sick joke? 

You dart back to the living room and tug on your backpack. Was that a honk outside? Fuck, the taxi must be here.

You open your front door, and spot the taxi parked in your driveway. Social events always end up causing a mad rush out the door. You grab the dufflebag, slinging the strap across your shoulder. This adds modestly to the weight of the backpack already loading your shoulders down. As soon as you attempt to lift the gargantuan suitcase, you are met with the terrible realization that you are far too weak to lift it more than a few inches without seriously injuring your back. How in the actual fuck did you manage to make it so heavy? After exerting all your strength trying to lift the luggage, you accept that moving it would take a miracle.

Seconds after you relax your grip on the handle in defeat, a tall, unkempt man appears in your doorway. His face is relaxed in a manner that strikes you as somewhat irritating, given your current frustration at the steep pile of bullshit you've been served this morning. He greets you with a placid smile. You are briefly alarmed at the strange man standing in your doorway, before noticing the taxi company's logo on his indigo shirt. He tilts his head slightly to the side, staring confusedly at the large suitcase.

"Need a hand with that, my man?" He inquires, slightly amused.The taximan's height accentuates how thin he is, and you glance at his lanky arms. You thoroughly doubt he'll have any better luck with the suitcase than you. 

"Well, yes," you respond, "but I seriously doubt that anyone who doesn't qualify as an overinflated bodybuilder could lift this piece of shit. Maybe I should take some things out of it first." You motion to unzip the main pocket, and are interrupted as he wraps his hand around the handle. 

"Nah man, there isn't no need for that. I got you covered, my brother - I'm stronger than I motherfuckin look to be," he assures you. His manner of speaking distracts from what he’s trying to say, and it takes you a couple seconds before you clue-in to the message behind his bizarre words.

Before you manage to respond he lifts the suitcase with a slight grunt and hauls it towards the taxi. You watch him, stunned and slightly envious. Fuck that guy, you're sure you could have done it too if you weren't so fucking tired.  
...Probably.  
Fuck. 

Following your brief moment of shame, you make one quick final inspection of your first floor. Is the stove off? Check. Lights are all off? Check. What the fuck are you even worrying about, it’s not like the house is going to burn down while you're gone. Your brother's way too much of an obsessive to allow for that. You exit the house, slipping your phone into your pocket, and close the front door behind you. As you walk towards the taxi, your gaze shifts briefly to the glowing red horizon. Looks like the sun’s about to come up.

You have a feeling it's going to be a long trip.  
____________________________________

The taximan lifts the huge suitcase out of the trunk of the taxi, placing it on the ground with a sharp exhale. It's a wonder that thing even managed to fit in the trunk. Perhaps you packed too much. You begin to think over all the items you shoved into it's cavernous expanse, when the taximan turns to you and pauses briefly, an expectant look in his tranquil gaze. A momentary silence follows as you try to think of what to say. Why is he looking at you, what the fuck does he want- oh... right. Your eyes light in realization; you still have to pay him. Why are you so out of it this morning? Your hand plunges into your pocket, pulling out a few ten dollar bills and a five.

"How much do I owe you?" You ask, counting through the money in your hands in order to avoid further eye contact.

"Twenty-one dollars bro," he states. You swear to god this guy looks as tired as you do, but somehow there's a calm smile plastered on his face. It's somewhat uncanny and a little bit irritating. You hold 25 dollars out towards him, and he takes the money. 

"You good? Are you being to need any more help up with your shit?" He inquires… you think. You shake your head. He nods, and with a friendly wave he returns to the cab and drives off. How the fuck does anyone have the energy to be that cheery so early in the morning. What a weirdo.

You turn around, adjusting the position of your backpack and dufflebag on your shoulders. Your hand returns to your pocket, depositing the remaining cash and retrieving your phone to check the time. All of a sudden, a slow, rumbling sound flows into your ears, rolling in your chest. You lower your phone, dread sinking in your stomach. The sound quickly increases in volume, and just as your ears place the noise right behind you the source of the din shoots over your head. The plane looks so close to you in the pale morning sky, and the roar follows it over the top of the airport and out of your view. Jesus fucking christ, you have made a terrible mistake. Out of habit, you look to your phone for comfort.

Oh jesus fuck it's already 6: 45 and you haven't even checked your bags yet. You grab the handle of your suitcase and attempt to rush forward, but are met with a straining jerk on your arm from the sheer weight of the thing. You stumble back towards the suitcase and bump into it in what may count as the least graceful movement known to man, the strap of your dufflebag sliding down your arm. A somewhat loud expletive shoots out of your mouth. Perhaps louder than you had expected. Glancing around in embarrassment, your eyes meet with the glare of a woman ushering her child away from you. You place both hands on the handle and trudge forward, tugging the thing towards the nearest baggage cart supplier. You are able to move at a somewhat decent speed while exerting almost all of your remaining energy, though it's pretty fucking tiring when you have so little to begin with. 

When you finally arrive at a long line of baggage carts, you struggle to lift the suitcase a couple inches onto the one at the end closest to you. Once this exhausting endeavor is complete and you are several times more irritated than you were before entering the terminal, you toss your dufflebag on top of it and push it towards the luggage check. Suddenly your shoulders feel lighter, but you know this is going to be a huge pain in the ass.

You approach the luggage check and are smacked in the face with the vision of lineups as far as the eye can see. Oh this is going to be a real fucking fun time. 

You haul your shit in the direction of your designated standing trail, and commence the mind numbing endeavor that is waiting in a crowd of people. As you stand there, cursing every person in front of you in line, the bright red suitcase of a guy ahead of you catches your eye.

The vibrant colour seems out of place in the crowd of blues and greens. It’s brightness is almost annoying, a slight fluorescent glow surrounding the luggage in the glaring airport lighting. It’s probably one of the brightest reds you’ve seen, and the colour initiates an absentminded staring contest with you.

You’ve never really liked the colour red. It has always seemed too intense, too loud – You have always been scorned for being like that. Maybe the colour reminds you of how much of an asshole you make yourself out to be. It also just seems kind of threatening to you, you aren’t sure why. Fuck it, it’s a colour, who gives a shit.

Suddenly, you realize you’re watching the suitcase be carried off by a baggage conveyor belt, and it’s owner is nowhere to be found.  
“Sir?” the clerk calls to you hesitantly.  
“What?” you say, awakened from your trance, “oh. Um, sorry.”  
You place your baggage on the scale, indulging the airport’s bureaucratic processes at last. Fucking finally. Maybe now you can find somewhere to get some chips or something, you’re fucking starving. They better have some barbecue chips or some bitch is gonna get cut.  
____________________________________

The empty section of the shelf stares at you in defiance, an out-of-place hole tucked between the Ms Vickies and the Cheetos. The label marking the section reads ‘BBQ LAYS,’ and yet, there are none to be found. 

THEY'RE OUT OF BARBECUE CHIPS? WHAT THE FUCK, HOW IS THIS EVEN POSSIBLE? ITS NOT LIKE THEY’RE SOME KIND OF FUCKING OBSCURE HIPSTER CHIPS. WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL IS WRONG WITH THIS PLACE. THIS FUCKING AIRPORT CANNOT GET ANY SHITTIER.

After steaming in your rage for a brief moment, you grab a small box of junior mints in defeat.  
These will have to do, but there's no way in HELL they're going to provide any sort of nourishment or comfort. Honestly, fuck this day right in the ass with a rusty chainsaw.

You turn to approach the cash register, a tired scowl furrowing your brows, and are met with yet another lengthy lineup. A rather loud F Bomb shoots out of your mouth and is followed by immediate embarrassment. A few of the concerned customers eye you suspiciously as your mouth seals itself shut and your cheeks redden. You decide to quietly take your place at the end of the line.

After stewing for a couple minutes in your slurry of embarrassment and frustration, you realize that the line hasn’t actually moved since you entered the convenience store. 

Suddenly, you notice a bizarrely monotone voice in the air, contrasted by an equally bizarre feminine voice. You look to their sources and see the cause of the motionless lineup – some asshole at the front of the line is chatting with the cashier! WHAT THE- You glare at the piece of shit, jumping at the chance to give your frustration a tangible scapegoat. What a fucking piece of- hold up…

It is then that you see it. The last bag of Lays Barbecue Chips, nestled comfortably in the chat-happy asshole’s arms. He stands there, holding up the line with his monotone babbling, cradling the last bag of your favourite snack - the last thing in this god forsaken airport that would have brought you some form of peace. You have never been so furious with someone in your entire life.

In an instant, he is somehow responsible for every frustrating misfortune you’ve been subjected to this morning, from the misplacement of your novel to the heaviness of your suitcase. You glare at him as he converses with the cashier, cursing his stupid sunglasses, his douchey blonde hair, and his stupid red and white t-shirt. What a fucking asshole. Who the fuck wears sunglasses inside an airport at 7 in the morning. Your fury has a face, and that face is turning towards you – towards the lineup behind him – and finally realizing what he has done.

“Oh, shit,” you hear the bastard mutter, noticing the hold up caused by his selfish conversation, “sorry.”

APOLOGY NOT ACCEPTED, YOU PIECE OF HUMAN GARBAGE. 

The man bids his farewells to the cashier and finally gets the fuck out of everyone’s way, taking the last of your favourite chips with him. The line collectively sighs in exasperation, finally progressing. You glare at the back of the man’s blonde head as he disappears into the bustle of the airport. That kind of shittery simply will not stand, you swear to god. He has made a terrible mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, ok, so I decided to make this fanfic waaaay back in like... June.  
> This shit has been a long time coming. I am a piece of crap when it comes to organization and/or planning skills, though, and since school is a bitch, the next chapter's publication date may be as close as next week and as far as next month, and I am sincerely sorry for that.  
> This is my first fanfiction, so if the story's organization is shit, you know why. If it's not... well I suppose that remains to be seen. Honestly though, I do hope you enjoy this and I'm so glad I can finally post it.  
> Expect a shade-wearing douchebag in the next chapter!


	2. It's like, 7 in the morning.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tired dude in shades navigates an early morning airport.  
> A flood of equally tired, hasty airport patrons fuels the baggage lineups beneath harsh lighting.  
> A need for sustenance leads a tired dude into a convenience store.
> 
> Man, its like, 7 in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Ok.  
> In my defense,

The lighting in airports always seems so harsh. 

Maybe that’s because it’s always early morning or late night when you’re there, or maybe that’s because airports are legally required to have unpleasant lighting during their hours of operation. Whatever the reason, the atmosphere in here only makes you appreciate your sick shades even more. 

The barely lucid line of people shuffles forward, and the balding older guy in front of you progresses towards the baggage check. His movements are hurried, as if lifting his suitcase onto the scale in an exasperated manner will speed him along through the system. Dude must be on a tight schedule. 

Your gaze shifts to an airport convenience store behind the baggage check station. A few cheap birthday balloons protrude lazily from a plastic balloon stand, some of them leaning on a nearby greeting card display. You smile slightly, remembering your best bro’s face when you gave him his birthday present.

John’s expression when you told him the news was nothing less than priceless. His eyes had lit up like it was fuckin christmas morning, and his trademark blinding smile had spread instantly to reveal his huge front teeth. What a dork. Not gonna lie though, the trip was a pretty great idea. You’re loaded, so a handful of plane tickets and a couple hotel rooms weren’t that big of a deal to you. To John, on the other hand, it was the best goddamn gift ever. You’d felt like a game show host – pulling back a verbal curtain to reveal the grand prize. Congratulations, you just won a trip to New York with 6 of your closest friends. Happy birthday nerd, your best bro is awesome.

You snap out of your blissful recollection when the lineup takes a collective shuffle forward, and the slight genuine smile disappears from your face. The old dude who had been in front of you finishes his hasty conversation with the baggage chick and walks away at top old-dude speed. Sweet, you’re up.

____________________________________

At last, you walk away from the baggage check, feeling a dull sense of achievement. Your steps are lighter now that your baggage has gone solo, and you wander towards the convenience store and pause in front of the balloons. You didn't eat breakfast, so maybe you should get some chips or something. 

You move into the small store and find the chip rack. Wow six whole choices, that's pretty overwhelming. You didn’t prepare yourself for a test of this magnitude so early in the morning. Your eyes shift over the large bags, pausing on the Doritos.

Should you go with sweet chili heat? Hmm. Nah let's not get too fancy right now, it's like, 7 in the morning. 

You grab a large bag of Barbeque Lays and head to the cashier, absentmindedly tossing the chips on the counter and rummaging through your pocket for cash. A familiarly strange voice interrupts your distraction just as your hand finds a five dollar bill. 

“Heey! How's it hangin coolkid?” the cashier inquires, audibly smiling. 

You look up, raising an eyebrow. An old friend stands grinning before you in a terrible convenience store uniform. She looks tired. A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, but you play it off as a smirk. 

“Oh shit,” you say, hiding your genuine surprise, “sup Terezi. What the actual hell are you doing here?” 

“That is a good question, Dave,” she sighs, fatigue and sarcasm flavouring her words. “I needed money for school and things. Then I decided that a good way to make money was to find a job.” She flashes you a blatantly fake grin. “Luckily, this top notch establishment was hiring.”

“Sounds like a solid deduction. How’s school and things going for you?” 

“Law school is backbreaking and delicious,” she says, listing these oddly paired adjectives like she's stating an obvious fact. “It’s everything I thought it would be and more, and I hate it.”

“Sounds like you're having a real fun time,” you reply, a little too much fondness slipping out in your tone. You kinda miss her weird way of speaking. 

“Oh it is, Dave. It’s very fun, especially when I have way too much work to do. Deadlines are my passion, David.”

You smirk in response. She always did like getting shit done. 

Terezi eyes your bag of chips and smirks. “I never took you for a BBQ man, Dave. I thought you were all about doritos.” 

“Yeah well the time didn't feel right for doritos you know what I’m sayin? I mean, it’s like, 7 in the morning. There's a time and place for quality chips and an airport at 7 am doesn’t quite cut it.”

“Alright, Just pay me before you get hopelessly lost in some ridiculous metaphor.” She knows you too well. You slide her the five dollar bill like its a top secret document. 

“What’s your chip preference, T?” you casually inquire.

“I’m more of a Jalapeño Ms. Vickies girl myself,” she says, grinning triumphantly for some reason. “I like to spice things up a little.”

“Wow, those are the opposite of chill.”

“Then I guess you don’t like to spice things up a little,” she says sarcastically, “since you’re all about chill.”

“Chill like you would not believe.” You proceed to tell her about your extremely chill morning of waking up late, tossing some extra shit into your sloppily pre-packed bags, and getting the hell out of your house before you missed your flight. She grins throughout most of your epic tale, then stops you halfway through your lengthy description of the taxi experience.

“Hate to stop you, Dave, but there’s a line behind you and I am supposed to work here.” 

“What, it’s been like a minute tops-” You turn around to see the 9 angry people lined up behind you, and realize that you maybe fucked up.

“Oh, Shit,” you say. “Sorry.”

You should probably get going,Your flight will be boarding soon. 

“See ya Terezi. Have fun with school and things,” you say nonchalantly, covering your genuine disappointment in the premature end to this quality catch-up session. You give Terezi a little peace-sign-salute as you turn to walk away. Secretly you wish you could talk to her longer, but oh well - you have a place to be, and you've held these people back long enough. Plus, its like, 7 in the morning. Maybe you can catch up some other time.

“Bye, coolkid. Have fun with pretending not to be a lame nerd,” she responds, beginning to scan the items belonging to the first disgruntled customer. As you walk away suavely with the chips tucked under your arm, her odd voice interrupts you once again, stopping you abruptly.

“Dave, wait, you forgot your change.”

“Keep it,” you respond, before continuing your suave exit, “call it a donation from a caring friend to a starving law student.” 

You hear a tired version of her trademark cackle, followed by an amused “Whatever,” as you head towards your boarding gate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so, I know this is way shorter than the other chapter.  
> And I know this is also being posted several months after the other chapter.  
> However, in my defense, school is an asshole and I'm finally free...?  
> So I hope you enjoy the first in a series of new additions to this fic. I'm already writing the next chapter and it's almost done, so you can expect it to be posted within the week.  
> I'm serious this time. I swear.
> 
> ... I'm serious.


	3. Who the Fuck Even Is This Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chill guy sits in a plane.  
> A significantly less chill guy is displeased with this.  
> A dispute and a fear of flying make their flight a little more interesting.
> 
> Seriously, who the fuck even is this guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, so,   
> remember how before i said within the week,

When the shuffling mass of bodies finally makes it onto the plane you feel as though you’ve aged ten years.

You step into the aircraft from the temporary hallway reaching out from the side of the airport and grasping the doorway, and a smiling stewardess greets you through the emptiness in her eyes. She’s given the same peppy “Hello, enjoy your flight!” to 100 other dead-eyed people and it’s clearly sucking the life out of her. As the languid train of people guides you away from the stewardess and slowly down the narrow aisle, you observe the douches already settled in first class. There, the significantly nicer accommodations make it easy for the first class passengers avoid eye contact with the passing commoners. You stare down one guy with a stupid purple streak in his hair as he fiddles with seat adjustments and delicately positions his complementary pillow. He seems to feel your gaze even despite your shades, but manages to avoid meeting it until just before you trudge through the curtain to the next class. Once caught, he watches you with his purple eyes like a deer in headlights until he’s out of view.

Initially you hadn’t seen any point in wasting extra money on a better seat for yourself - only John got that honour. The flight was only going to be like five and a half hours, so whatever. Now, however, you somewhat regret having to do this walk of shame down the aircraft.

After passing seat after seat of tired businesspeople, the train of shambling passengers guides you to the underwhelming economy section, and you spot the cramped seat that you’ll be calling home for the next few hours. When you get the chance, you shimmy past the dude in front of you and tuck your small duffel bag into the overhead compartment. Then, you take off your red backpack and climb over to your seat, fishing out the bag of chips and settling your tired ass in for the long haul. You gaze out the window as you enjoy some of the finer things in life: cloudy morning skies, shitty chips, and two inches of elbow room. Who the fuck needs first class when you’re chillin like goddamn royalty back here?

In your blissful relaxation, your gaze returns to the other passengers packed in like sardines with you. Most have settled into their seats by now, but a few stragglers still stand loading their shit into overhead compartments, or milling past you to seats deeper still in the hull of the plane. Seems like you’ll be taking off soon. You pop a chip into your mouth.

A bald man in a white suit sits snoring in the aisle seat in your row. He fell asleep almost as soon as his ass hit the chair, so it doesn’t seem like awkward conversation will be an issue here.

And the seat next to you is still empty. Sweet.

Not so fast, says the class-separating curtains ahead of you as they spread to reveal the hottest mess you’ve seen in a while. Biggest hot mess, you mean. Jesus.

The dude is classically disheveled – his hair aggressively messy, and his grey toned clothing twisted under the straps of his two massive fucking carry-ons – and he’s huffing like he just ran the world’s angriest marathon. He seems to be having trouble keeping the straps from his bags on his shoulders as he fumbles for his plane ticket, and u can practically see the irritation radiating off him. Someone’s having a bad day.

You pop another chip into your mouth.

The guy is having a weird aggressive staring contest with his ticket which he keeps losing, breaking his stare to glance around the aisle at the seat numbers and then going back to the ticket like three times. Soon the stewardess from before emerges from the world beyond the curtain and interrupts his ticket tension to assist him. She absentmindedly inspects the ticket and then points in your general direction, and the dude mumbles something in thanks.

You pop another chip into your mouth.

He grasps at the pile of shit hanging heavily from his body and shifts it so he can stumble yourways, stopping beside your row and immediately struggling with the overhead compartment. After spitting out a generous helping of expletives under his breath, he deposits his duffel bag (he has the same exact fucking duffel bag as you, weird) and then slams the compartment closed. He then whips his gray backpack over the bald guy and into his seat unceremoniously, and moves to climb over the sleeping bald man before noticing you and freezing in place. It is then that you realize a smirk has found its way onto your face.

You pop another chip into your mouth, not correcting this.

He watches the chip intensely as it passes over your lips, then glances down at the bag, and then back at your eyes – or at your shades, you guess. A few locks of his hair fall in front of his eyes as they widen slowly, his dark eyebrows already furrowed dramatically as apparently is always the case. A distinctive fury builds slowly in his striking gray eyes as he watches you chew your tasty snack, and you can’t keep your slight smirk from spreading. Who the fuck even is this guy.

You give him a quick once over under the discretion of your shades. His dark hair is unapologetically messy, and the dark circles under his eyes give him a vaguely skeletal look that accentuates his gray irises. His body isn’t necessarily skeletal, but his lean musculature makes him look oddly small. He’s wearing this weird shirt with his emo hoodie and dark jeans that says “Number 1 Dad,” but you doubt it’s literal as he is not only quite young (probably around your age) but given his near constant frustration thus far you feel like he might not be all too great with kids. Your gaze returns to his face – his ridiculously expressive and pissed off face – and yours nearly breaks into a grin before you can suppress it back into a nonchalant smirk. 

Finally, you break the awkward silence.

“Sup.”

You pop another chip into your mouth.

His eyebrow twitches, and he legit seems ready to yell at you, when the stewardess walks back through the curtain, carrying a deflated life jacket and a loop of seatbelt. Looks like the little demonstration thing is starting.

The stewardess watches the angry dude, clearly waiting for him to be seated. He looks around and realizes he’s the only one still not seated, and then climbs awkwardly over the snoring bald dude and into the seat next to you. He shoves his backpack under his seat as spitefully as he can manage. What the actual hell.

“Welcome,” begins the warm, friendly announcement. The stewardess follows along as it explains the emergency procedures, displaying the fact cards and demonstrating the equipment. The plane lurches into taxi, and starts driving slowly towards the runway as she points to where the exits are on the plane.

You tear your eyes from your neighbor and return to your chips, bringing a steady supply of them to your mouth. Maybe you should’ve gotten something more substantial before boarding the plane, but whatever. You’re pretty sure they have to feed you anyways given the length of the flight. After the dude finishes fussing with the bag, you see him glancing at you out of the corner of your eye. With the crunch of every chip, he side eyes you with that furious expression. Does he think you can’t see him? Because subtlety is clearly not his strong suit-

Suddenly your elbow collides with your leg.

Oh. Oh Hell no.

This fucker just shoved your arm off the shared armrest.

The Announcer describes how to strap in and tighten the seatbelt and instructs everyone to buckle in. The stewardess holds up the seatbelt loop and demonstrates.

Is this guy trying to start shit? You turn your head towards him and look him in the eye. He responds with another pointed glare, his eyes doing their best to imitate freshly sharpened knives. You slide your arm back onto the armrest from the side, maintaining eye contact as you use your strength to shift his arm slowly out of the way and off the armrest – a feat that is shockingly difficult, as this dude apparently has some considerable arm strength. Once his arm is off the armrest again, he has tensed up severely, evidently teeming with rage. He once again shoves your arm off the armrest with his elbow and claims it for himself. Dude. Ow. You aren’t even mad, though, this is hells of entertaining.

But seriously. What the fuck.

The Announcer describes how to inflate the simple life jackets. The stewardess mimics blowing it up through the red nozzle, and demonstrates pulling the inflation tab.  
You look this dude straight in the eyes and lean towards him slightly, to a point where you know your eyes will be somewhat visible. You stare him down – straight faced as ever and ready to fuckin play – and lift your hand slowly. Maintaining eye contact as he tries to burn holes through your head with his mind, you delicately place your hand upon his, squeezing slightly and caressing the side of his hand ever so slightly with your thumb. He clenches his entire being. As a finishing blow, you let fly a smirk so casual and so nonchalant it could make absolute zero seem like Texas in July.

And… you think you broke him. His voice rumbles out from deep within.

“Jesus chr- FUCK OFF!!” He yells, his odd voice a sweet n’ sour raspy mess. His hand jerks back off the armrest so fast you hear a cracking sound in his elbow, and he leers at you with so much disgust you let out a snort.

The announcement continues to explain oxygen masks, and tells you to put on your own before helping others. The stewardess has stopped, however, the gas mask halfway on her head. She – and mostly everyone else within earshot – is staring at your furious neighbor. She frowns, then goes back to demonstrating the straps on the gas mask.  
The pissy dude glances around apprehensively, his face reddening – half out of anger and half out of embarrassment, you assume.

“Ughh,” he grumbles, twitchily shifting as far from you as he can manage in his cramped airplane seat. You then take the liberty of moving your weight towards him as well, leaning fully onto the conquered armrest. You pop another chip in your mouth with a crunch. You observe how clenched every muscle in his body is as he leans his upper half as far over the opposite armrest as he can, almost leaning on the quietly snoring bald man. He looks a bit uncomfortable.

The announcement explains where the emergency equipment is relative to your seats. The stewardess points to the overhead gas mask compartments and the life jacket storage under the seats.

Still watching him, you put about three chips into your mouth and crunch them to pieces, the dude’s face twisting up and his jaw tightening as he faces away from you. You turn to look out the window and see that you’re turning onto the runway, the airport spanning out in the distance.

“Thank you for travelling with us, and have a nice flight,” coos the announcer. A little jingle plays the announcer out and the plane begins to speed up. The stewardess once again disappears behind the curtains.

The ground speeds past faster and faster as the whole plane rumbles. Beyond the runway you see tons of docked planes, and the impressive mass of the airport slowly turns away from you as your imminent takeoff approaches. Nice.

Suddenly a clammy hand clasps down on yours, clutching at it and the armrest. You turn back to your competitor, ready to finish this, but are taken off guard by the drastic change in his expression. Takeoff is normally your favourite part. Clearly, it’s not his.

The anger in his expression has all but melted and given way to pure terror. He’s staring wide-eyed at his knees as if that’s where he’s watching his life flash by. His body is pressed tensely against his seat, and he’s clutching at the armrests so hard that the veins on his hands are clearly visible and his knuckles are white. Dude. Ow.  
The plane reaches full speed and lurches partially upwards, the heavy pull of the earth shifting as the plane plays tug of war with gravity.

He flinches and his eyes fly around the plane frantically, flitting helplessly from person to person. They return to yours briefly, terrified and pleading, before a pang of anger returns to them and they go back down to his knees. Unconsciously, you leave the bag of chips resting on your lap and move to place your free hand on his shoulder, and he flinches hard. He looks back to you, latching on to your gaze. You don’t like how familiar his expression is.

The plane lifts off and the weight of the world sinks away from you. You feel the hull lift into the air, away from California as gravity loosens its grip. You love the sensation of leaving the ground, the freedom of it invigorating and definite.

The pissy guy’s eyes clamp shut. His whole body tenses like a frightened animal, and his grip on your hand tightens as he grasps it for dear life.  
“Hey man, it’s alright,” you say, concern leaking into your otherwise steady voice before you can catch it. You can’t take your eyes off this guy, it’s uncanny. Your hand on his shoulder pats him comfortingly. He’s shaking, jesus.

“Hey,” you say, calm and collected, “plane companies don’t want to deal with the PR shitstorm involved with a plane crash.”

His eyes open and train on you again, his eyebrows raising in question. “What,” he begins, fear and frustration cracking through the word.

“I’m pretty sure those corporate dudes at Airplane Co. would do just enough to make sure their shit won’t cause them personally any inconveniences. Old man CEO wouldn’t be all too pleased with losing any money on some stupid tragedy. Dude wouldn’t even give the go ahead on shit that isn’t average enough to take to the skies. Also, consider this: This plane would have to be a major wimp to get tired on some little jump to New York. China, sure, I get it, but tapping out on a quick run to New York would be downright pitiful,” Your voice is as steady as ever, a constant stream. Your pissy neighbor’s eyes are fully open, and focused on you. You’re not entirely sure if he’s getting pissed off or just pissing himself, but at least he’s focusing on something other than his knees.

The plane’s gravity shifts again as it rights itself while airborne. It shakes mildly as it reaches its proper elevation, still soaring towards New York.

His grip on your hand tightens further so you keep talking.

“Even if this shitting plane wanted to he wouldn’t tap out before reaching the destination, probably, lest his ass be shat on by every single one of his plane colleagues for being weak as fuck. He’s gotta do it for honour's sake, dude, competition in the plane business is fuckin cutthroat. This plane wouldn’t dare look like an idiot like that, not since plane 0413 has been watching him like a hawk, like some shitty anime rival watches the colourful main character. Plane 0413 is more than ready to approach his ass at the water cooler and be like, wow what a pussy, you horses ass, shame upon your plane family-”

“Oh my fuck,” He cuts in with that unique raspy voice again, notably less shaky, “Shut. Shut the fuck up.”

He lifts his hand from the opposite armrest and waves his index finger at you like a mother telling little jimmy that he’ll get no more cookies.

“Not another word,” he demands.

You take your hand from his shoulder and mock-zip your mouth shut, smirking slightly. Some of the intensity has drained from his face. Maintaining eye contact, you pick up the bag of BBQ Lays and tilt it towards him, raising an eyebrow in silent question. He looks surprised, and glances from you, to the bag, and back to you again. Like in a fucking cartoon. He then nods hesitantly and slowly takes a chip from the bag.

He pops the chip into his mouth, looking away. He grabs another chip from the bag.

The seatbelt signs on the overhead dashboards turn off as the turbulence stops, and the announcer informs everyone that the ascension is complete.

His tired gray eyes return to you, now almost void of anger and significantly calmer. Their lack of negative emotion reveals how tired they are. Cool, grey pools edged by dark circles that seem unfitting for someone so young. A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and you feel your face start to heat up.

His hand is still on yours.

Seriously, who the fuck even is this guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have had the rough draft of this for months. i am so glad i finally got that shit together.  
> And so begins the dawn of a new age. An age of me finishing this and also keeping my word to finish this
> 
> ...i swear this is going to get finished  
> it will,  
> i swear,


End file.
